Why I’m a Proud Pansy: A Kitchen, a Cotillion, and the Power of Reclamation

I did it again. The thing I swore I wouldn’t do if I wanted to slide into my day with a sense of ease and grace. My son was upstairs getting ready for school, my husband and I were in the kitchen prepping breakfast, and—like clockwork—I clicked on the TV just in time to wreck my morning. There she was: United States Homeland Secretary Kristi Noem, criticizing Oregon politicians for resisting federal bully tactics. And then, with the kind of smugness that makes your blood boil, she said it: “They’re a bunch of pansies.” Chris and I froze mid-cereal pour, mouths agape. Oh no. That bitch did just not.

The rush was instant. My vagus nerve lit up like a Christmas tree, and fight mode kicked in—my lifelong default. I’ve spent years trying to get my brain ahead of my emotions, but sometimes my mouth still outruns my better judgment. It’s generational Italian trauma at its finest: sharp tongue, quicker fists, and a heart that burns hot for justice. Growing up in the 80s, about an hour north of the city, I was a pansy in a place that didn’t have room for softness. Middletown High School was a sociological pressure cooker—first-gen Italians, Jews, Irish, Puerto Ricans, and Blacks all vying for space and safety. Being a “maricón” in that mix made me a minority within a minority, and danger was never far.

So here I am, 50 years old (51 in a few weeks), standing in my beautiful kitchen in East Dallas, still feeling that same flash of heat when someone like Noem weaponizes a word like “pansy.” I wanted to punch the TV. I wanted to scream at everyone who voted for the kind of leadership that celebrates cruelty. But then—like grace itself—my son came bouncing down the stairs. We turned off the TV and told him how proud we were of his perfect math quiz score. He lit up, like a pansy—delicate, joyful, radiant.

And that’s the thing. My son, my little Buddha, has been teaching me all week what strength really looks like. At his final cotillion event, when the boys were told to find their mothers for a dance, I popped up like toast—no plan, just instinct. Archie grabbed my hand and taught me the steps, leading with kindness and confidence. I was speechless. And I’ve been crying ever since—happy tears, proud tears, all the tears.

I’m grateful for a community that didn’t flinch, didn’t question, just let the love be love. We’re raising kids with grace, empathy, and emotional intelligence that far surpasses the venomous rhetoric of Kristi Noem. So no, you don’t get to take the word “pansy” and spit it out like poison. I take it back. I reclaim it. I am a proud pansy—bright, bold, and blooming. And I’ll keep watering this field of love, one tender moment at a time.